hundred signatures filled a petition that was given to Rod van Vleet, project manager on site for the Redhook Group. Mr. van Vleet declined to be interviewed, but has previously dismissed all claims of paranormal activity on the property as preposterous.
Reports allude that van Vleet may not be as confident as he asserts. Sources say that the Redhook Group has commissioned an investigator to explore the property.
To the townspeople, however, both the hidden intents of a real-estate developer, and the angry fury of the Abenaki, are equally unimportant. “All I know is, this is wearing me out,” says Huppinworth, at a pause in his endless sweeping of petals. “Sooner or later, something’s got to give.”
It was an established fact of the universe that Meredith was never going to meet a decent man. At work, she was too smart, and therefore too intimidating. Blind dates didn’t prove any more successful. The last one she’d been on was with an actor her grandmother had met in the park, who’d arrived at the restaurant dressed as Hamlet . To leave or not to leave , Meredith had thought, that was the question . Since that debacle, her grandmother had presented her with the phone numbers of a mortician, a vet, and a chiropractor, but Meredith had conveniently lost each one. “I want a grandchild before I die,” Ruby said, on schedule, every two to three months.
“You have one,” Meredith would remind her.
“One with a father,” Ruby would clarify.
Meredith had finally caved in, when Ruby told her that this one spent his free time doing volunteer work with senior citizens. So now, Meredith was sitting across from Michael DesJardins, trying to convince herself that this wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed.
He was drooling. All right, so it had to do with dental surgery he’d had that day, but it wasn’t particularly appetizing for Meredith. “So,” he slurred, “you work in a lab? What do you do . . . feed all the mice and stuff?”
“I do PGD. Preimplantation genetic diagnosis.”
“I’m in the catering business.”
“Oh?” Meredith folded her hands in front of her, watching him butter an entire slice of bread and stuff it in his mouth. On the bright side, it did mop up his excess saliva. “Are you a chef?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
She’d always harbored the fantasy of a man whisking her to a cozy apartment, where a fabulous gourmet meal had been prepared for her enjoyment. “I guess being in a restaurant feels like work, then.”
“This is a cut above my place, actually . . . you ever go into the Wendy’s on Sixteenth Street?”
Meredith was saved from responding when the waiter approached with their entrées. Michael began to cut his entire steak into little quarter-inch cubes. It made her think of the meals they served in mental institutions.
She smoothed down her napkin and looked down at her chipolata sausage, nestled on a bed of polenta. The silver lining , she told herself, is that I’m going to get a good meal out of this.
Michael pointed to her dinner with his knife and laughed. “Looks like a Great Dane did his business there.” A line of drool dribbled down his chin.
I will stand up and excuse myself to go to the bathroom , Meredith thought. And then I just won’t come back.
But if she did that, Granny Ruby would accuse her of deliberately ruining another date. So Meredith began to think of ways to make Michael want to leave of his own volition. She would ask for crayons and start to color on the fancy linens. She would sculpt with her polenta. She would lick her plate and offer to lick his. She would communicate only in mime, or Pig Latin.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Michael said. “Are you ovulating?”
“ Excuse me? ”
“It’s just that these days, when I look in the mirror, I see Daddy .” He grinned and pointed to his forehead, as if the word had been tattooed there.
Meredith wished for many things in that moment: her grandmother’s
Reports allude that van Vleet may not be as confident as he asserts. Sources say that the Redhook Group has commissioned an investigator to explore the property.
To the townspeople, however, both the hidden intents of a real-estate developer, and the angry fury of the Abenaki, are equally unimportant. “All I know is, this is wearing me out,” says Huppinworth, at a pause in his endless sweeping of petals. “Sooner or later, something’s got to give.”
It was an established fact of the universe that Meredith was never going to meet a decent man. At work, she was too smart, and therefore too intimidating. Blind dates didn’t prove any more successful. The last one she’d been on was with an actor her grandmother had met in the park, who’d arrived at the restaurant dressed as Hamlet . To leave or not to leave , Meredith had thought, that was the question . Since that debacle, her grandmother had presented her with the phone numbers of a mortician, a vet, and a chiropractor, but Meredith had conveniently lost each one. “I want a grandchild before I die,” Ruby said, on schedule, every two to three months.
“You have one,” Meredith would remind her.
“One with a father,” Ruby would clarify.
Meredith had finally caved in, when Ruby told her that this one spent his free time doing volunteer work with senior citizens. So now, Meredith was sitting across from Michael DesJardins, trying to convince herself that this wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed.
He was drooling. All right, so it had to do with dental surgery he’d had that day, but it wasn’t particularly appetizing for Meredith. “So,” he slurred, “you work in a lab? What do you do . . . feed all the mice and stuff?”
“I do PGD. Preimplantation genetic diagnosis.”
“I’m in the catering business.”
“Oh?” Meredith folded her hands in front of her, watching him butter an entire slice of bread and stuff it in his mouth. On the bright side, it did mop up his excess saliva. “Are you a chef?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
She’d always harbored the fantasy of a man whisking her to a cozy apartment, where a fabulous gourmet meal had been prepared for her enjoyment. “I guess being in a restaurant feels like work, then.”
“This is a cut above my place, actually . . . you ever go into the Wendy’s on Sixteenth Street?”
Meredith was saved from responding when the waiter approached with their entrées. Michael began to cut his entire steak into little quarter-inch cubes. It made her think of the meals they served in mental institutions.
She smoothed down her napkin and looked down at her chipolata sausage, nestled on a bed of polenta. The silver lining , she told herself, is that I’m going to get a good meal out of this.
Michael pointed to her dinner with his knife and laughed. “Looks like a Great Dane did his business there.” A line of drool dribbled down his chin.
I will stand up and excuse myself to go to the bathroom , Meredith thought. And then I just won’t come back.
But if she did that, Granny Ruby would accuse her of deliberately ruining another date. So Meredith began to think of ways to make Michael want to leave of his own volition. She would ask for crayons and start to color on the fancy linens. She would sculpt with her polenta. She would lick her plate and offer to lick his. She would communicate only in mime, or Pig Latin.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Michael said. “Are you ovulating?”
“ Excuse me? ”
“It’s just that these days, when I look in the mirror, I see Daddy .” He grinned and pointed to his forehead, as if the word had been tattooed there.
Meredith wished for many things in that moment: her grandmother’s
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